Frankly

Frankly, what's Halloween without Frankenstein's ghoulish but tragic Monster? 

My spouse went full Prometheus and fashioned this creature together (without human parts) in her pottery class. Insert a candle and voila: 9 parts adorable and 1 part fire hazard. She made several types for each of our 5 grandturkeys. And for that... all the applause emojis. 

As Mary Shelley said, "live and be happy and make others so." And with that dear friends, a happy Halloween and to all a full pillowcase of candy. 

Things one should never outgrow:

see last Friday's post (or if you're too "busy" pootling, don't bother). 

What a fine new word! It's the opposite of scoot. A nod to being irresolute. And if you're reading this while snuggled into your rocker recliner, moot. 

Happy pootling. 
 

How to say it?

Apparently, you can buy these
stickers, lol. I miss Betty. 

I'm still thinking about emojis* and their role in our lives, so when I teased a friend via text recently and she responded with🖕I laughed—a bit surprised by her cheeky ambush mic-drop of an emoji. I countered with a fist bump, a sign of respect for her comic timing. But what did I actually appreciate about our exchange? It provided a good laugh. Who doesn't need that?

With that in mind, a thought for today: here's to giving the finger. 

Some might (understandably) frown—this is not exactly a "gift" one should "give" recklessly, emoji or otherwise. But consider this example: when I first visited my brother in the hospital soon after he shared his terminal cancer diagnosis, this was what I noticed immediately. That laugh was a most welcome way to begin that visit and that conversation. Although that "finger" didn't cure my brother's cancer, the environment felt better, safer, less severe. 

Sometimes the finger says it so well. Better than anything else. But why is that? It's science. 

Giving the finger (or saying the words) can decrease pain. And although the science is less conclusive, witnessing someone giving the finger may provide secondary catharsis, decreasing stress as it activates mirror neurons that boost feelings of empathy, shared justice, and social connectedness. Sudden thought: imagine attending some team-building session where the finger is employed to empower all participants! Attention workshop leaders: I think I'd find the novelty of that hilarious. (I dare you.)

Dear friends, these days we often feel so powerless in a world that can feel doom-y, a world where it sometimes takes too much energy to resist the bleak. Permission (for those who might need it) to use science to boost your nervous system today. 🖕😀

*Update: AC and one of his followers explained how to use the Genmoji function (iPhones) to create your own emoji. Thanks—I immediately made an orange shirt emoji. Solved. 

The Answer?

Bebe Rexha & Dolly Parton
(on my current playlist)

Today there's an old conversation playing in my head. 

We were attempting to get to know each other better, and he asked, "what kind of music are you into?" That was a mistake. I'm terrible at small talk. I suspect many people would say, "oh I like almost anything" or "Not jazz" but... music is just too paramount within me for any definitive synopsis. (I've written about my playlist before.) 

I'd compare musical tastes to explaining how one falls in love. How do you articulate those highly personal and abstract and fervid whatabouts? Intangible notions that sometimes trigger love at first sight or maybe bit by bit and then suddenly all at once. For me, music (the arts) is the lifelong love: my first love, a love longer than all the other loves. Lonely (Gen X) kids found love where they could. My early loves were all in books and on the radio and TV. 

Anyway, we had a bit of a meandering conversation; I tried to explain that the music I like is not just about the genre, or performer, or time period—it depends on the songwriting, the personal connection, and the self-expression. It's a relationship. He considered this, and asked one last question, "so, you like Dolly Parton then? I said, "absolutely." Suddenly, we understood each other! It's true: Dolly always has a way of bringing people together.  

Today I'm thinking about 1970s childhood me sitting on the floor in front of the TV watching Dolly perform, feeling connected, and yes, it was love at first sight. (She was like my cousins' dolls.) But it was also her trademark self-deprecating humour, her warm neighbourliness, her sincere optimism and over time, her incredible generosity and humanity. Today, I am also remembering some other members of my childhood TV family: Mork (Robin Williams), and John Candy. Sigh. 

If music is indeed like love, this week our sorry world lost love personified. Nevertheless dear friends, notice (and don't forget) that even after this world-wide collective grief fades, Dolly will always be the answer to many of life's most challenging questions. 

Let's be honest:

I (2), M (5), M (8 mos), L (3), M (1)

Our summer attempt to take a couch photo of all five of our grandchildren was... messy, chaotic, and like chasing your own tail, a hilarious exercise in futility* but also this: PERFECTION because I CAN'T WAIT for them to reenact it as teens someday. 

*An argument ensued regarding which sibling should get to hold M (their little sister). If you look carefully, our eldest granddaughter's body language shows how cross she was at this grave INJUSTICE perpetrated by her little brother, ha. 

Happy FIRST birthday young M! I hope your older siblings (and cousins) might always pick you for their teams, but that would be wishbull thinking, wouldn't it? Never fear though: you will always belong to Team Pops. 

Things that deserve ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶t̶i̶n̶k̶ a discerning eye:

My oldest grandson L, (age 3) is smitten by colour... and I, in turn, am smitten by him (and his mind). 

Currently, he may not pay attention to every instruction or direction from us adults, but he's certainly paying attention to the beauty in this world. 

Thanks for the reminder, young sir. 

Small

A big thank you to London, Scotland, and Ireland for accommodating us Canadian tourists; I hope we left behind small footprints and a positive impression. Now one last excursion to share....

Just north of Dublin is a peninsula (once a small island) with a fishing community (about 8,000 folks) called Howth (rhymes with oath), a quick train ride from the city.  

This was our second visit. We had something to finish: the cliff walk. Last time it was raining, so we cut the walk short, but this time? Perfect weather. 

About a week before we visited Ireland the first time (2023), we met someone at a wedding—he was studying medicine in Ireland and told us Howth was his favourite place. We asked, why? He couldn't find the words but his body language said much. We are fans of serendipity and places people get emotional about, so we visited and it became a favourite too. Now my turn...how to describe? 

  🤔Let this good man's clip show you what words can't.

  🤔It's a cleansing breath of a place. 

  🤔It's a retreat, a haven, a resting place; I suspect Dubliners request their ashes be spread in Howth.

  🤔Think of a place that has almost everything: (in this case) incredible views, friendly folks, fresh seafood, street markets with huge brownies, colourful boats bobbing in blue coastline waters, rocky beaches with cold water where people swim anyway, playful otters, ice-cream shops, flowers that grow in cracks along rock walls, unexpected palm trees, a castle, and maybe one busker. Note that I said, almost. Why? Some places have too much, their abundance overwhelms and they don't feel...snug. Plus, setting is a relationship—we must bring something to our most cherished places—an impulse to attach to the stream of life.   

  🤔Like all words sometimes, my words are inadequate, so I will offer this final idea about Howth: my heart just endorses this place.

Quick research reveals that a teen-aged W. B. Yeats lived in Howth. He wrote fondly about it, sharing that he snuck out at night (classic teen move even in the 1880s), and also felt his first unrequited love there. Perhaps his famous poem The Lake Isle of Innisfree has clues to Howth? The poem expresses a longing to escape the urban confines and return to nature, build a cabin, plant a garden, live in "a bee-loud glade," seek peace next to the "water lapping with low sounds by the shore" and then even while stuck in the city hear this cherished place in the "deep heart's core." 

Dear friends, our hearts are small, and some places fill them so well. Whether travel is required or not, I hope you get plenty of time in places your heart endorses.

Small?

Irish writers? Extraordinary. 

C.S. Lewis...W.B. Yeats... James Joyce... Oscar Wilde...  Bram Stoker... Claire Keegan... Sinead O'Connor... Bono... Dolores O'Riordan... the Irish Rovers... Hozier...

Although Ireland has a relatively small population (about 5.3 million), the country, per capita, apparently produces the second-highest number of poets, writers, and songwriter-musicians (Iceland is number one). 

Why is this?

Clearly, Ireland has established systems for the arts to thrive, but it also speaks to the way the Irish value and elevate storytelling.

So when I saw this whiskey in Ireland, I chuckled, not entirely surprised by the cheeky name. Who hasn't drowned their tears in alcohol once or twice? But I also thought, oh yes, I know the struggle that is writing and communicating as I write and rewrite a lifetime of words like assembling Lego. Does this connect? What's missing? Is this forming something perceptible? Yet despite the struggle, writers gotta write, hoping to bring something into being—an idea, a release, a light in the dark? For creatives, tears (sad and happy) are inevitable. 

Today those tears continue to fall for another Irish singer-songwriter, Glen Hansard. In one of the many tributes occurring in Ireland and elsewhere, someone expressed his admiration for the artist this way: "he operated at the speed of love." Is there a better legacy (or sentence) than that? Tears indeed. 

Big

One last post about Northern Ireland. 

After some shopping in downtown Belfast, we were walking back to our accommodations when I noticed this statute. 

I thought, is that Frederick Douglass? 

I read his pivotal autobiography in 2024, but I had no idea he visited the UK and Ireland (summarized here in a short video). My favourite Douglass quote? "Once you learn to read, you will be forever free." 👏 

Later that day, I read that after his book was published in the US it became widely popular and a big seller all over the world, but it triggered the demented possibility that he could be recaputured and enslaved again. So, he toured Ireland giving lectures on prejudice and liberation—something the Irish certainly know a thing or two about, don't they? 

Douglass loved Ireland and felt "transformed" there, "I find myself not treated as a color, but as a man." Inspired to erect his likeness, the Irish obviously loved him too. His statue, the only one of Douglass outside of the US, is located near where he spoke in Belfast (1845-46) and depicts him gesturing as he speaks to his listeners. Thankfully, his words live on and thanks to the Irish appreciation for art, one can also see his passion for human rights. 

Big

Do you know The Giant's Causeway myth? Here's the gist: we men can be big babies and who saves us? 

Yup, it's women—the women who (roll their eyes and still somehow or at least 59% of the time) love us. 

We spent an afternoon hiking throughout this uniquely scenic area along the north coast of Northern Ireland. Although we did not have time for the official visitor centre, we loved exploring this geological wonder. We also hiked to view "The Devil's Middle Finger" whose name reminds me of a favourite dad joke: dear middle finger, thank you for always sticking up for me. 😄

Afterwards, we ate the best scones with jam and clotted cream at The Nook, a pub nearby. I'd never had clotted cream before! 🤯 Dear friends, what is this dream fluff and why is it sooooooooooo good?! Hmm, maybe it's the 643 grams of fat in each dollop? Worth it. 

In-between

We departed early on a June day and did a marathon drive in-between Inverness and Glasgow. Scots might be appalled at the expanse of this one-day road-trip, but for many Canadians...? Pfft, a five hour drive is basically a Wednesday. 

We drove along The Great Glen (stunning) and stopped at Urquhart Castle AND HELLO HISTORY NERDS: TREBUCHET ALERT. This brutal medieval war-toy is an engineering feat, and history tells us they were used in shockingly inappropriate ways. What would you flllliiiiiinnnngggg to defeat an enemy? 

Next was a quick stop in Fort William, a warm and friendly town that my spouse and I spent a day exploring on our first trip to Scotland. But this time...WE ACTUALLY SAW BEN NEVIS! During our last visit, locals suggested not to fret about the (interminable) rain and fog as even some Scots, despite multiple visits to this town, have never seen the UK's tallest mountain! I'd call us lucky ducks, but I believe the Scots say, "absolutely jammy." FYI, I will be stealing this phrase as spreading jam on what you're already enjoying is the perfect way to describe unanticipated luck. 

After a sunny picnic along the lovely Loch Linnhe, we continued driving aka repeatedly accelerating and decelerating (see: roundabouts, sigh). Side note: as locals might say, "I didnae ken" how effectively the Scots use roundabouts to slow drivers down. It's brilliant, but as Canadians might say, also #$@!% annoying. But soon we just didn't care anymore....

BECAUSE VIEWS. Glencoe... Loch Ba... Loch Tulla... Loch Lomand... Whoa... definitely not just a Wednesday! It's like YOU get a car spectacular view and YOU get a car spectacular view and YOU get a car spectacular view. Thank you Oprah Scotland! 

And finally, Glasgow, a city my spouse and I spent several days in during our first trip to Scotland (the Necropolis, the People's Palace, Buchanan Street, those incredible street murals...) but this trip? We had one evening before we took a bus and ferry to Belfast. What to do? Meet a fellow blogger, of course! It was an absolute vacation highlight! But why didn't we take a photo together?!

Dear Christina, thank you again for your warmth and hospitality and our fun conversation. During our talk you mentioned one of your favourite Scottish words, "outwith," the opposite of within. As we discussed, to my knowledge this is not standard usage in Canada, but I suppose our closest equivalent would be outside of or beyond? Well, Christina, although we live outwith Scotland, it lives in our hearts and now, so do you. I wish we lived closer but remember, if you ever travel to western Canada.... 

Small

Before I explain how we achieved my wife's small dream of petting a highland "coo," a caution: periodically we Canadians hear about tourists who visit us and attempt to take selfies with an elk or a moose or a bison or a grizzly bear. (I kid you not.) Terrible ideas. 

So, I would like to assure readers that we were not those (eejit) tourists; we did not wander into a farmer's field or traipse across protected parkland. Instead, we just stopped to pee at a service station.... 

Although it's unlikely you've visited this particular gas station (near Perth, Scotland), if you do road trips at all ANYWHERE in the world, I suspect you've visited a similar gas station, one that sells EVERYTHING. 

All-day breakfast? Of course. Whisky? Definitely. Underwear? Got it. Scented Candles? Yes. Vegan brownies? Yup. Feather boas? "We might be sold out." AND Highland cows fenced out back? AYE!

To use some Scottish slang (hopefully correctly), gas-station happenstance is good craic. 

Small?

Eejit 1, 2 & 3 (me)

Our first full day in Edinburgh was a sunny Saturday in June, so we intended to take full advantage but we had no idea how our plans would unfold that day, my favourite in this favourite city.

In the morning we threaded our way through the city to (literally) a fairytale storybook location: Dean Village. This sublime and peaceful ancient community (12th century) in a lush green valley in New Town is impossibly charming. 

After exploring quietly (people live there), we continued along a tree-shrouded walking path next to the river Leith where we observed a mother duck teaching her ducklings to repeatedly swim into the waterfalls' current, then float backward and then push into the current again—vital life-lessons for us all these days. 

Soon we discovered a rickety rope swing over the river. I watched while each of my other three traveling companions, er eejits, temporarily suspended their frontal lobes and yoga-contortioned themselves onto said swing, while nearby I pondered, is 911 a thing in Scotland? 

Unscathed, we continued until we happened upon the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art where the first thing we saw was a large sign on the grounds declaring, THERE WILL BE NO MIRACLES HERE. Insert thinking face emoji here. Later, while navigating our way back to public transport, I thoroughly contemplated that sign. Is it irony? A quotation? Political protest? A reference to something historical? And what exactly constitutes a miracle...and who decides? Hmm. 

My conclusion? Scots artists are quite masterful at "making the masses muse," or at least this mass, ha. (Read more about the artist here, if you're interested). 

Soon we were on a bus to Edinburgh Castle (which we visited during our first trip to Scotland), so we grabbed lunch from street vendors in Grassmarket, aka where I first fell in love with fennel-seed sausage rolls. (They are a small but substantial miracle, ha.) 

We began to notice then that the crowds were quickly increasing along the Royal Mile... and suddenly we found ourselves in the middle of Edinburgh's pride parade! Middle might be a misnomer but with 40000+ people flooding everywhere, the sidewalks mostly disappeared. It was quite moving to witness and cheer on so many people singing and drumming and joyfully celebrating the freedom to be themselves.  

We continued down the street until we found a close that happens to have the same name as our oldest granddaughter, M, so we took a selfie, and then walked to the base of Arthur's Seat (elevation 251 meters/823 feet), an extinct volcano next to the city. On our first trip to Edinburgh, my spouse and I climbed the Holyrood side, an easy hike, but this time we climbed the city side, much steeper. 

Certainly by western Canadian standards, Arthur's Seat is no (Alberta Rocky) mountain, but you know that feeling when you've accomplished something challenging? Maybe like 1 part relief, 1 part pride, and 8 parts invigoration. Something like that. 

Did our sunny June Saturday in Scotland contain any miracles? I don't know for sure, but I do like that saying, "if life is a series of small miracles—notice them." 

In-between

On to Scotland. Six of my eight great-grandparents emigrated from this Land o' Cakes. I adore this country. 💓

From London we took the train north to Edinburgh and explored our neighbourhood. If you've visited, you know about the closes that enable pedestrians to move in-between locations along the Royal Mile in Old Town. One particular close featured (in my opinion) some very Scots graffiti, ha. 

This was my second visit to Scotland, so it would be stupid to claim I'm qualified to be an astute observer of Scottish folks. But my memories of my maternal great-grandparents and my travel experience suggests to me that Scots are typically witty, genuine, and straightforward, hence the succinct message here, lol, one I read with an exasperated tone. 

It's a sound message for the world, isn't it? Later, during a whisky tasting, a comedian phrased it another way for us tourists: "don't be a bawbag." 😄 Good advice. (Maybe don't google that, ha.)

Big

Watch a video
about "Babel."

We enjoyed several London experiences. This was my second trip, so I've done many of the tours: Tower Bridge, the Thames boat tour, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, Shakespeare's Globe, the Tower of London....

But this time, two art installations stood out to me. 

Firstly, I appreciated the National Covid Memorial Wall. Adorned with hand-painted hearts and an open invitation to write the name of a lost loved-one, it is maintained by volunteers. What are other countries doing to commemorate the 7 million+ people who died during the pandemic? 

Secondly, I loved the Tate Modern Art Museum. Mostly free, it features artworks by Matisse, Dali, Picasso, Warhol, Lichtenstein, but the one that completely captured my attention was "Babel" by Cildo Meireles. 

Entering the room from around the corner, the 8 meter behemoth at first seems like any other antiquated busted tower, inviting you to look up, but then you notice the materials—stacks of radios arranged upward from large to smaller, old to newer technology, and then you discover these radios are ON, tuned to different stations!

If you know the biblical story of the Tower of Babel, its meaning is obvious and then you slowly realize it is simultaneously meaningless as it floods the room with quiet and scratchy radio nonsense—discordant sounds, and voices, and languages from throughout the world. In other words, it's trippy and clever. Although constructed in 2001, it's also very 2020s.

Dear friends, art sometimes uses technology to ask us humans big questions: are we truly so advanced if we still can't understand each other? 

In-between

On the train in-between Gatwick airport and our London accommodations, I snapped this first photo. I apologize that I share this without his consent, but there's a reason I was drawn to him. 

He looked so familiar, a combination of my father and grandfather: the work-boots and the barn coat (Dad), the foggy spectacles (Dad), the flat cap (Grandpa), the beer (?) in his bag (Grandpa), the hint of loneliness (Grandpa). A bit giddy, I wanted to look him in the eyes, smile wide, and say, it's so good to see you again.

I did not. Undoubtedly, jet-lag and sleep-deprivation (flying Edmonton to Halifax to London) contributed to this sentimental moment but this phenomenon happens regularly when I travel. Many times, I have encountered other foreigners I'm positive I know but it's just psychology. Unconscious anxiety compels us to seek safety: the familiar strangers effect is one way we feel more secure, more attached in new contexts. 

It's quite a common human experience and I kinda love it. Maybe most strangers really are just friends we haven't yet met? 

31/31

Links to 30/31
& the 31 Vibrant Things Launch Post

It was challenging to choose one final item for the last post in this series. I had several options, but while pushing my youngest grandson in the stroller, I realized that most of my posts about vibrant things had one thing in common: M's soother sorta says it all. 

Do vibrant things act like soothers? And does this mean we're just big-baby humans? 😆

It seems my little research-project this May has revealed that much of the vibrant matter in my life is indeed lively and functions to boost my mental health, and additionally, seems connected to my identity.   

As you know, from day 1 our brains are biologically hardwired for anxiety—varied degrees of fight, flight, or fawning—thanks to that (life-saving) little stinker of a cluster of neurons at the core of our limbic systems named the amygdala. We're programed to have knots in our stomachs connected to so many mental health factors: trauma, loneliness, debt, struggling relationships, health issues, watching The Bear and so on. But, as you also know, coping strategies are numerous: breathing, exercise, music, dancing, writing, pets, watching The Pitt and yes, surrounding yourself with "centering objects" aka those optimal vibrant things that soothe. (Please dear friends, I do not mean your phone.)

This reminds me of the cliche we all know: stop and smell the roses. But wait, dear friends, don't dismiss this overused statement as trite. Why? Because it's wise, and it's true. 

The garden soothes. But it need not be a garden, nor a rose—substitute any object: a favourite bookmark, your Mom's cookie jar, the photos sticky-tacked to your bathroom mirror, a Christmas ornament, your Dad's hand-me-down tools, the saskatoon bush planted in your yard to remember someone special.... 

Whatever the "rose," pause and pay attention to the vibrant things that act like maps when we've lost our way a bit, especially those cherished items that re-tell soft-spoken stories, that lift you a little, that bring some peace, and soothe what aches. 

26/31

Links to 25/31 &
The 31 Vibrant Things Launch Post

I find it quite remarkable that today I'm a mere FIVE years younger than my Dad.😶Although decades have passed, I understand him so much better now that we're the age of brothers instead of 30 years apart. 

He was tough, had unnecessarily large hands and eyebrows, and laughed like his lungs were hiding old air mattresses. His nickname was the Grinch, but his heart grew many sizes in the presence of two things: machines and his grandkids. All things with engines were most vibrant things to him. So in his later years, he combined those loves and made toys.  

The summer after he died, our little family took a road trip and visited the Alberta Reynolds Museum. Their motto is "Celebrating the Spirit of the Machine." If ghosts were real my Dad could have haunted this museum—the Ford Model Ts, the first snowmobiles (huge), a 1940s helicopter, early 20th century tractors—there's nothing more he would have enjoyed. 

While there, we bought this little tractor soldered together from a spark plug, nuts, and copper. My kids and I knew instantly it was the perfect souvenir, a truly vibrant signifier for my Dad. Soon after that museum visit, I called my Mom and told her how much Dad would have loved this museum; she surprised me when she revealed he had visited it once, with a friend. I thought, whoa, maybe he is haunting it? 😉 

Sometimes now when I look in the mirror first thing in the morning, I see my Dad there—his eyes, his cleft chin, and yes, even a version of his eyebrows, ha. Dear friends, who says we can't time-travel and who says we can't continue to have relationships with those we've lost? 

22/31

Links to 21/31 &
the 31 Vibrant Things Launch Post

I don't have much fashion sense, but there is one thing I like: odd shirts. 

See those astronauts floating around on one of my favourite t-shirts? They make me smile. But can shirts be vibrant things? Yes, I think they can. My son can't resist t-shirt sarcasm/ comedy; for his birthday this year I gave him a t-shirt with a bull logo and the text, bull shirt. 

Maybe I like weird shirts because I was a kid in the 70s &80s? Maybe it's because the brain loves novelty? Whatever the reason, they make me feel something...? Authentic? More confident? Playful? Yes to all. 

But mostly? It's a bit of a mental-health boost. They uplift. They spread a little much-needed happiness in this sorry world. Plus, I just realized they align with the tattoo on my right arm: sursum corda, Latin for lift up your hearts. 

Dear friends, wear your heart (yourself) on your sleeve, and chest.

21/31

Links to 20/31 &
the 31 Vibrant Things Launch Post

A long-ago wedding gift that's been displayed in our home for decades, this is a photo of a lithograph print named "Moonlight" by London-born artist Peter Ellenshaw. Who are the people in the boat? Why are they sailing in the moonlight? What danger are they escaping? 

If you look carefully, my reflection is visible in this photo, inserted and absorbed into this "story." I wasn't sure how to represent today's vibrant thing but then I remembered that Ellenshaw worked in the film industry, specifically for Walt Disney.

No doubt many of us in North America count Disney as formative in introducing us to the movies; many of my generation remember Sundays at 6PM when the Disney theme song invited us to eat our ice-cream in front of the TV and watch Goofy steer that camper around that treacherous mountain yet again or watch wunderkind Jodie Foster (a favourite) escape danger while running circles around the adults.... Sure enough there's a Reddit thread exploring similar memories. These were my early experiences with film-related vibrant things, absorbed in a magic I will always be captivated by and am forever grateful exists for us all to engage with, enjoy, and be inspired by.   

Despite being an introvert, this appreciation for films compelled me to minor in Drama. Dear friends, do not assume studying drama (or any of the arts) is impractical. Those courses truly helped me improve essential life-skills including speaking, listening, presenting, improvising, problem-solving and especially creative-thinking. But I especially loved scene analysis, studying text and subtext, and using it to create the behind-the-scenes props and sets—the stage craft, the art direction. Artists who arrange the locations, the sets, the props, the look, the feel, the identity of a film setting...they're creating a emotional landscape, which results in a kind of art-therapy alchemy and finally this leads me to the magic. 

Film-makers create spaces and characters and ideas fundamental to pondering (even solving) the mysteries of our lives and who we are. Good films are magic, and if you pay attention, that magic is hidden in the details. And those details...details that suspend our disbelief, cause the world to slip away, immerse us, possess us, invite us to become lost and somehow also found within the story. 

It's a trip, isn't it? It's why we love movies. For some, certain genres are especially effective at achieving this alchemy, but today (stay with me), I want to elaborate on this using the horror genre. You see I have a soft spot for horror. Whoa, I just flinched at my soft spot word-choice and so I googled its origin and it has something to do with a baby's fontanel AND NOW my imagination just fused that with the horror genre AND NOW I'm completely freaked out by my own thoughts.... As you may have deduced, it doesn't take much for me to be get absorbed. Sorry. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Dear friends, horror movies are particularly powerful at creating vibrant spaces; those dire landscapes are often metaphors for pervasive human struggles. One recent example is the last chapter of Danny Boyle's apocalyptic zombie film saga, 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple. Is it dark, disturbing, even deranged? Yes, but it's also a metaphor for overwhelming grief (personal and collective) and a lantern of hope in the dark emotional landscape we currently live in.

For example, a vibrant thing featured in the film is a record-player and an album that somehow survived a virus-based apocalypse in what was the UK. Do you remember Duran Duran's song, Ordinary World? It's a profound ode to loss, disguised as a 90s pop song and it's oddly perfect for a horror film. Hearing that haunting song played by a lonely man in a bunker surrounded by human bones is a nightmare, but it's also an act of defiant rebellion, an act of human perseverance, and much-needed hope in a world (our world) gone mad. That's magic. And that's what film-makers do. 

If you're interested in contemplating how Ordinary World compliments the horror genre, listen to Joy Williams haunting version, lyrics included: